“In that case, thank you for volunteering.” His statement skewered me through the stomach, catching on the lingering butterflies that hadn’t managed to vacate since he’d caught me. Now the stubborn things were missing wings that had been shredded as easily as a dagger through gossamer and drifted uselessly to the pit of my being.
“For what?” I squeaked.
“Apparently, it would seem I need assistance preparing course materials, and you’re so confident in your own ability in this class, I see no reason to deny you the spot as my new assistant. You can bridge the gap for your fellow students.” Professor Quinn pulled a pen—my favorite pen, the one he’d failed to return to me—and clicked it. The sound clapped like thunder in my ears. “I’ll see you after class.”
A dangerous thrill coursed through me. As did a sense of abject anxiety.
And the final jab of his victorious glare screamedcheckmate.
5
Fucking-goddamn-shit.
I couldn’t believe it—an Ashcroft here—and it was… she was…
It was absurd. I could still feel the softness of her body in my arms. The warmth of her bundled in her coat, the silken tickle of her hair against my cheek, and the sweet, fruity notes of her perfume lingering in my nose. Her expression the moment I saved her from that clumsy little fall stuck in my head; that sparkle of light in her earthy brown eyes, the slow curl of her one-sided smile, and the bow shape of her lips.
She was an Ashcroft.
She was at Kilbride University.
In my class.
She was my student.
And she would have to be mine–or at the very least, my responsibility.
6
Professor Luther Quinn was, to my dismay, profoundly magnetic.
It was dim in the cavernous lecture hall with the wide room lit only by the ambient silver glow of the projector. He commanded the room without breaking a sweat. As he went about the rest of the class, I spent the time making mental notes of what I observed. He must have been in his early forties and wore his age well.
And I couldn’t stop picturing him as a mountain and myself as a rather enthusiastic climber as the minutes ticked past.
By the end, the surrounding seats emptied rapidly, all students eager to flee after their last class of the first day. An aura of renewed vigor swept through them, flooding into the hall and leaving me in their wake. The excitement of escape evaded my reach when the man behind the podium pointedly looked at me for the first time since the start of class, and anxiety wrenched through me like a physical force.
I blamed my predicament on my big mouth and unstoppable thoughts. There had been times as a child where I struggled with impulse control and reining in invasive thoughts, and it seemed those habits weren’t as dormant as I’d hoped. My differences served as a barrier between me and potential friends. It made me cling to the ones I made all the harder, because one slip and I’d lose them again.
There were occasional lapses in understanding social cues, and difficulty with eye contact. And the literal interpretation of others’ speech, which might… I don’t know… make me call out a professor who only meant to challenge his students.
Those traits kept me apart from my peers—from beingnormal—and often landed me in trouble when I wasn’t actively camouflaging my behavior to fit into what society expected. I wanted to submerge myself in my favorite subject, not start on the wrong foot with the man teaching it.
This wasn’t a class I could drop. Or wanted to.
When the door clicked shut for the last time, I gave in and dragged myself from my desk. Everything within me quivered with an odd mix of trepidation and anticipation. I’d never been above lavishing in a favorite teacher’s attention, but this was decidedlynot that.
And Professor Quinn was more attractive than any professor had any right to be. The full brunt of his gaze watching my every move unmoored something inside me, something that longed to float out to sea.
I scuttled closer, hoping that he might end my misery and ignore me. With no sympathy for my nerves, his bewitching ocean eyes only lulled me nearer, step by agonizing step. All the while I gazed at the back of his hands gripping the podium, white-knuckled and veins on show.
What might it feel like to drag my tongue over those veins?
No, Ophelia, cut it out!
“Miss Ashcroft—”
“Professor, I’m sorry, truly. Sometimes I get ahead of myself, and I speak without thinking. I didn’t mean to insinuate—”
